


Perfectly Illfitting

by NikaAnuk



Series: Holmes Brothers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Brothers, Greek poetry, Holmes Brothers, Implied Incest, Incest, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:18:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaAnuk/pseuds/NikaAnuk
Summary: Sometimes to say something, you have to hide it. And if your brother is the smartest person you know, you need to use a dead language, to protect the truth. And yourself.***Or my take on the complicated relation between Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes in their teenage years.And now it is beta read!Thanks to lovely whatdoyoumean for saving me again, darling! :*All mistakes are mine





	Perfectly Illfitting

The first time happened when Father and Mother had a fight that ended with them locking themselves in opposite wings of the Holmes Manor, and Mycroft and Sherlock were left to their tutor for the time being.

They would eat in the nursery – Mycroft making effort to be on time for meals and save Sherlock from eating on his own – they were restricted to the small day room and their shared bathroom. The rest of the house seemed very big and very dark; Sherlock would come to Mycroft's bed sometimes, scared of the darkness.

He acted uncharacteristically irrational and Mycroft spent one or two afternoons in the library, searching for information. It seemed to him that his younger brother had an emotional reaction to what was happening. According to the books, this could scar Sherlock forever; if he felt abandoned in childhood, that would lead to very bad consequences. It all seemed very unfair.

Eventually on one Saturday, four days after the silence fell on the house, Mycroft came into Sherlock's room after the breakfast, dressed and with his messenger bag.

“Sherlock, dress up, we are going now.”

Sherlock, being only six at that time, hesitated, but got up from the window where he was watching formicarium and pulled on his socks and then shoes.

Mycroft handed him a jumper and a jacket and when Sherlock dressed up, Mycroft pointed to the backpack and they were ready to go.

From his own bag, Mycroft took out a bottle of water, an apple and a blueberry muffin.

“Pack it,” he demanded. “We will need the food for later.”

Sherlock's eyes brightened. “Where are we going?”

Mycroft didn't reply. It was a surprise and one Mycroft was very proud of. Normally he wouldn't bother, or he would tell Parents, but since there was the cold war going on, he decided to be the grown up man he liked to think he was, and do this on his own.

The British Museum hosted an exhibition about pirates and there was nothing better for Sherlock than to go there; he would definitely forget about Parents' problems.

Together they left the house and walked towards the small station. It was quite a walk, but the weather was nice and Sherlock was interested in everything, with Mycroft for once answering all his questions. He himself had no interest in bees, animals or even plants but Sherlock seemed to be fascinated, especially in the first. And Mycroft would never let himself not know the answer.

The train was punctual for once - Mycroft read in newspaper that the trains used to be late all the time – and they got in. Sherlock was scared and excited. He kept close to Mycroft, but once they found seats, he knelt to see outside. Mycroft bought them tickets from the lady on the train and gave Sherlock one.

“Keep it, we will need it later.”

Sherlock folded the ticket carefully and put it in the pocket of his trousers.

“Where are we going?”

“Paddington Station.”

“We are going to London?! Without Parents?!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took two books out of his bag.

“I told Mr. Borman,” he lied and handed Sherlock one of the books.

That was one of the 'grown-up books' that Sherlock liked to read but rarely got into his hands. But if Mycroft wanted some peace and quiet, he had to oblige his younger brother.

Sherlock grabbed the book and checked the front and back cover, not really interested in reading what the back said. Carefully balancing the book on his lap, he took off the backpack and put it aside on the bench. With that out of the way, he opened the book.

Mycroft noticed with a smile that Sherlock checked the year of publication and only then moved to the first page. With one last glance at Sherlock, he opened his own book and started to read.

***

Paddington was full of people and buzzing. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and looked around. “We need to find the underground,” he said, because the trip with the tube would make Sherlock's day.

“There! It's there!” Sherlock pointed. “Where do we go? I will tell you how to get there!”

On the wall in his room at the moment was a huge poster with the plan of London metro, Sherlock had decided he was going to learn it all.

“The British Museum.”

“Hm... We need to take Bakerloo to Piccadilly and from there Piccadilly Line to Russell Square,” Sherlock recited happily.

Mycroft nodded and pulled him towards the gates, leaving the platform behind.

Sherlock's head turned around with a half-opened mouth, looking at people, buildings and the big adverts in the metro corridors.

They got tickets and they went through gates again, this time walking underground.

That day, Mycroft saw his brother happy. He would talk on the tube, and then on the street, commenting on the people they passed and sometimes quizzing Mycroft, or answering questions. But the moment when they stopped at the museum and Sherlock noticed the poster with the pirate exhibition, he looked first to Mycroft and then to the building, speechless.

And Mycroft never saw him so happy, neither before, nor after.

***

Mycroft thought quite often the few memories like this made their relation so complicated. For two minds so similar and so complicated, living in such proximity would be a torture. But staying away, learning of the successes of the other, always trying to get the upper hand, was not making things easier.

Mycroft saw how they were tangled in the power struggle, but couldn't do anything to stop it. Whatever he would try, Sherlock would take it the wrong way.

But when everyone else is too slow for you, or too stupid, you will end up occasionally seeking company of the man you may otherwise despise.

For Sherlock those moments started in September. For a month or two he would tolerate Mycroft's presence, they would read in one room, occasionally walk together to the park. Closer to November, he would sometimes visit Mycroft and stay in his London apartment, but that happened only after he went to uni.

At seventeen, Sherlock was still at home, and when the dark dog days came – each year around eleventh of September – Mycroft would see his brother getting quieter and more melancholic. He would start reading different kinds of books, he would study the paranormal. Long in the night he would play his violin and he would stop eating.

On one of those evenings, with the wind and rain pondering down the roofs and windows, Mycroft climbed to the attic over the west wing, where their father used to live once.

The stairs for servants, into their rooms, through the old nursery now mostly used for old furniture, towards the linen closet he got to the trap door. He pulled them down, uncovering a square of yellowish light. Closing behind him the closet door, he climbed up the ladder and pulled it back behind him.

To walk in the attic, one had to bow quite low. Mycroft noticed with some note of surprise, that he used to be much shorter, but of course that was obvious.

Sherlock was sitting in the usual spot at the small window. The blankets and pillows heap around him, he was buried in the lecture. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Mycroft wrinkled his nose, coming closer to Sherlock.

His brother had a terrible habit of smoking the plain Woodbine. Mycroft personally preferred Embassy Filter – something he picked up from the boys at school, and wasn't particularity proud of, but he learned how to live with it.

Judging by the cover of the book it was one of Aunt Serafine's ghost stories.

“I daresay that is a perfect story for tonight,” Mycroft noticed.

Sherlock glanced at him, the black curls falling on his forehead. He was in this time when every normal teenager started to look like a scarecrow, but not Sherlock. Sherlock had in him this quality of young boys mentioned by Straton, Meleagros or even Plato. He was all grace and beauty even with the skinny legs and too bony hands. The mop of dark curls and the skinny face made him look somewhat not human. Maybe this is why Mycroft found looking at him so fascinating.

Mycroft spent last year at school, learning the best that ancient Greek had to offer and found himself now quoting 4 epigram of Straton:

Akme dodeketous epiterpomai: esti de toutou

cho triskaideketes pouly potheinoteros:

cho ta dis hepta nemon, glykeroteron anthos Eroton

terpnoteros d'ho trites pentados archomenos

hexepikaidekaton de theon etos:

hebdomaton de

kai dekaton zetein ouk emon, alla Dios.

ei d'epi presbyterous tis echei pothon,

ouketi paizei,

all' ede zetei ton d'apameibomenos*.

Sherlock frowned, he was still taking only Latin. Mycroft smiled to himself and sat down on the opposite heap of pillows.

He reached for one of the books that were stored around.

They were stored between the pillows and blankets, under the small table and on the tiny windowsill. He picked up Arthur Machen and started to read, not saying a word.

There was nothing to say. Their father hang himself in September of 1967 and Sherlock was the one who found him. What they really didn't want to talk about was that Sherlock couldn't forget it and it still plagued his dreams. Sherlock had a human face that he was ashamed of and that Mycroft didn't share. For him the accident was more unfortunate than sad. He noticed Father's absence but didn't associate with it any feelings.

During the nights like this, when Sherlock couldn't or wouldn't sleep and sat in the attic, reading the old ghost stories, Mycroft could only sit opposite him and read some too, unable to relate to his brother in any way.

But during the nights like this Mycroft thought that whatever he did for Sherlock when they were younger made his brother trust him enough to share this time with him, even if Mycroft couldn't really help. Or maybe the solemn fact that he was here, helped.

And sometimes, when Sherlock dropped his book and stared into space, or outside the window, lost in thoughts, Mycroft would start reading out loud from whichever page he was on at this time and Sherlock would eventually end up curled in ball, facing away from Mycroft, not sleeping, but quietly contemplating. Moment after moment relaxing slightly. Sometimes he would even lie down with his head on Mycroft's lap, and then Mycroft would pet him gently, reading, recognising that his brother needed a human interaction.

***

After Sherlock went to university, they never did this again. Then he met different people and discovered drugs. Mycroft lost his brother to cocaine.

*I delight in the prime of a boy of twelve, but one of thirteen is much more desirable. He who is fourteen is a still sweeter flower of the Loves, and one who is just beginning his fifteenth year is et more delightful. The sixteenth year is that of the gods, and as for the seventeenth it is not for me, but for Zeus, to seek it. But if one has a desire for those still older, he no longer plays, but now sees 'And answering him back”.

  
  



End file.
